Construction
by redonthefly
Summary: To me she seems perfectly sane.


A lot of people call Luna mad.

Rightfully so, most of the time…I mean, we are talking about the girl who spent a summer searching for a Crumple Horned Snorkack and whose father bought her an exploding Erumpent Horn for Christmas.

That horn in the very reason I'm with Luna right now, wading through the pile of stone and rubble that used to be her home.

Now, its personal business, picking through a person's personal affects. If it were anyone other than Luna, I suspect they'd be painfully embarrassed. If Luna is, she's very good about hiding it. Her eyes are so wide and clear and open that I doubt she's a very good liar, and in any case, she's nothing short of cheerful when I hand her what looks like a bit of ceramic ear.

"Oh! Neville!" She grins and scrambles over a pile of abused wood when I hold it up for a better look. "You've found a bit of Rowena. Daddy will be _so _pleased." With a quick tap of her wand, the fragment has vanished: sent to whatever place she's decided should hold anything worth recovering. We've been here most of yesterday and this morning digging through the blocks of collapsed stone, but haven't found much. Harry and Ron helped for a while the day before, but they told me privately that unless Luna was looking for something particular it was a fairly worthless exercise. It's fairly obvious anyway; we don't know if it was Death Eaters or some natural accident, but besides having collapsed, the building shows the unmistakable signs of fire. Its one enormous heap of dust, ash and dirt, but Luna has been plowing through it all week without complaining so we figure we can too.

It's a mark of friendship when people do pointless things simply for the peace of mind of those closest to them.

So we dig. It's slow work, and morning slips by before we've really had a chance to notice. The remnants of hanging fog burn off in the afternoon heat, leaving me suddenly aware that I'm sweating, and my belly is rumbling. The work is delicate but hard; we've shifted the largest, heaviest pieces with wands of course, but that is as mentally taxing as it is physical. Even with magic, all the little pieces of _everything _need careful sorting.

We've discovered it's a bit curious when a circular house falls in on itself. If it were _my_ house, I think I would have given up on it days ago and declared it a war monument or something. It is suitably depressing.

Looking up, I see Luna, full of brightness and sparkling eyes and so out of place on this burnt out lonely hill. She is relentlessly ripping through what remains of her attic. I was shifting through what looks like the library.

Luna's dad has some interesting books on mythical plants, but for the most part, soot and weather exposure has made them unreadable.

"Luna! Fancy some lunch?" She lifts her head at my voice, doe-eyed and pink cheeked. Her hair is whipping around her face in the light wind, and where her stockings are torn her legs are powdery white from ash. For a moment, she really does remind me of some wild thing; her silhouette is simultaneously vibrantly colorful and stark against the distant hills, like a painting I saw once in a London museum. She nods, and hair goes everywhere.

Lunch is a simple affair. I've packed roast beef sandwiches and packaged crisps bought from a shop in Ottery St. Catchpole, and Luna, after disappearing for five minutes or so, comes out of nowhere with cold water in a pitcher and pickled eggs.

"We've a storm shelter," she explains in reply to my raised eyebrows. "Daddy thought it would be prudent to stock it up in case Mum blew something up again. But she died, so we don't go down there anymore, unless we run out of jam." She says this all rather quickly, then pops a pickled egg into her mouth.

Luna is not incredibly talkative.

I've spent a lot of time with her over the last year or so. She was one of the only ones that returned to Hogwarts that I was particularly friendly with, and then helped to resurrect the DA. It was very odd not having her there after Christmas, even though she doesn't generally go out of her way to end silences. Luna is a filling presence.

"So," I say in an attempt to move beyond her last pronouncement, "what d'you think we've got so far?"

"Oh, I don't know. That bit of Rowena's ear was the last thing, I think. Ron unearthed a lot of our kitchen things two days ago, that was lucky." She's flopped on her back and is stretching out in the grass, talking toward the sky.

"And we found that whole box of art supplies earlier, too."

"That's right. I'd forgotten."

She rolls on her belly and begins stripping petals from a dandelion, and I gather that she doesn't feel like conversation.

The second half of the day is very like the first.

The next day is more or less the same, except that we start sorting the rubble, instead of merely moving it around. I can't decide if this is an improvement or not, but Luna plows through, looking increasingly insane as her hair and wand fly this way and that, hurtling boulder-sized chucks of wall across the yard.

Ron and Harry join us again the third day, but have to leave before lunch for Auror things. They lighten up the morning some, making jokes. Luna laughs hysterically at many of them without saying much.

By the end of the week, I can't decide if I'm simply dedicated to this cause or going a little mad myself. We've reached the point where there almost isn't anything left to do: most of the rubble is cleared into piles, and anything restorable vanished with a flick of Luna's wand. There simply isn't a good reason for either of us to be out here on this hilltop any longer, and the wind that I have watched play with Luna's long hair all week is whipping around us with the ferocity of a growing storm.

Finally, at half past three, when the sky has grown dark with thunderheads and drops of rain are beginning to sting my face, I call a stop.

"Luna!" I yell across the lawn, "Wait up a minute, will you?" She points at her ears and shrugs: the wind has thrown my words back behind me. I jog over to where she is smiling serenely, bangs sticking up oddly on her forehead.

"Did you find another piece of Rowena, Neville? I think I might have, but maybe,"

"Luna, we should stop."

She _does_ stop, mouth hanging open ever so slightly in surprise.

"Luna," I continue, more gently, "I think we better call it a day."

"There is so much to do still…" She gestures vaguely behind her, but I know as well as she does that whatever we are going to find, we already have.

"Why don't we wrap up here then," I offer, choosing my words carefully, "and get a bite. Or stop and visit Ginny?"

"No, I don't think so, thank you." She turns with a flip of her hair that catches me, stinging, across the face. Before I can even open my mouth again she has resumed attacking a pile of forlorn furniture with what I think used to be an ornately carved leg from some living room chair.

"Luna, _stop_!" Frustration is beginning to bubble under my ribs, and I march after her. The storm is well and truly upon us now, and my t-shirt is soaked through with rain. Luna, when I reach her, is as soggy as I am.

I can feel the sodden threads of her sweater when I put a hand on her arm. She whirls around, wide eyed and with that chair leg clutched in her fist, looking slightly deranged. Bits of wood splinters swirl in a crazy hurricane around her, the product of storm and violent, uncontrolled magic. For a second she just stares, and my frustration becomes something like fear: not fear of her, so much, but not understanding _what_ has made calm, quiet, Luna look more like a half-transformed veela and shriek like a banshee at my touch.

With a start, I realize that her grimy cheeks are streaked with tears. Her eyes, usually so clear and alive are clouded with some unspoken pain. Suddenly I am feeling the damp chords of that sweater against my ribs when she throws herself into my arms and cries.

Thinking back on it, there wasn't much else I _could_ have done. So, Luna and I sat atop a dripping chuck of hideously upholstered couch while she sobbed and I patted her back and got drenched.

After a while it blew over – as all storms do – and Luna's crying quieted to a soft hiccups.

When she extracts herself from my arms and I get a proper look at her face, her eyes are clear and bright again.

"I was kind of waiting for that," I admit quietly. "I don't know of anyone who pick apart their _house_ like that, and not feel anything."

She sighs.

"Do you still think I don't feel things?"

"No. I know you do."

She nods, picking at her sleeve.

"I don't honestly mind the _house_ so much, Neville. After all…its only things."

"And you can replace _things._" I offer, trying to be helpful.

"Yes, I suppose you can. Most things, anyway." This last part is an afterthought, said almost under her breath, and suddenly I understand.

"Luna?"

"Hmmm?"

"What _exactly_ are we looking for?"

Her mouth quirks a little, sadly, but she answers without hesitation. "A dollhouse."

"A _dollhouse_?" This was not the answer that I was expecting. Beside me, Luna stands up and shakes out her skirt a little. The damp cotton pleats stick to her knees.

My ruminations on why we have been out here all week looking for a dollhouse are interrupted when I wonder suddenly why I am noticing Luna's knees, the ribbed knitting pattern of her sweater or her wind-tumbled hair.

Her hair, which she is at this very moment winding into a tight bun at the base of her neck. She secures it with her wand and looks at me with a strange expression and raised eyebrows.

"My mother and I made it," she volunteers suddenly. "It had four rooms and pink wallpaper and a muggle chandelier."

"Oh?" It is the most intelligent thing I can think to say. Sometimes Luna's pronouncements still catch me off guard.

"Yes. We worked on it together for months. It was her hobby, miniatures. We had a lot of them, but the dollhouse was the one we made together." She sighs, and flaps her skirt again. "I would have liked to have found it."

"Luna, I'm sorry. I mean that." And I do. My hand drifts to my trouser pocket, where I know a few bubble gum wrappers are resting. Any lingering thoughts about the discomfort of wet corduroy vanish.

"I know that, Neville." She smiles peacefully and looks very pretty with wind chapped lips and cheeks pink from cold.

Standing, I place my hand on her elbow and she doesn't flinch. "Let's go grab a bite. Something warm. And we can look for the dollhouse more tomorrow?"

"I'd like that," she says, and her voice is warm.

We return for three more days, but never do find the dollhouse.

I think Luna is okay. The late spring winds play with her hair, there is sunshine, and when I mention that the scorched soil will make for a good garden, she beams at me.

Later, we find gurdyroot seeds in the cellar and she is ecstatic.

The next months are a blur of activity and rebuilding and restoration and _everything_, so it seems a little bit of a shock when Luna sends an owl informing me that her father is out of St. Mungo's and they are having a housewarming party the following week.

The new Lovegood house is still round: just broader and shorter. It reminds me of a house I once saw at the sea; it is cornflower yellow with blue shutters, is full of brightly painted (by Luna, if I have my guess) furniture and an odd assortment of knickknacks that would out of place anywhere but here.

I make my way through the crowd of people, say hello to Harry and Ron who are haunting an empty corner, and find myself in the kitchen. Luna is pouring a glass from a punchbowl of blue liquid to a witch I don't know.

She's wearing a bright purple dress, yellow sneakers and has her wand stuck behind her ear. When she looks up and sees me, her smile is slightly blue tinged. I'm suddenly very warm.

"Hullo, Neville." She pushes a glass into my hand, and points behind me with a jubilant expression.

Above the stove is a framed picture of two ashy blondes bent over a half constructed dollhouse.

Next to me, Luna is rocking on her heels and humming happily under her breath. Her hand is on my back.

To me she seems perfectly sane.


End file.
